A Chance to Set The Angel Free
by chatnchew
Summary: One year has passed since the Iron Giant made his sacrifice in Rockwell, MA. Dean, curious to know of what became of the agent who had nearly done them all in, tracks him down. He finds Kent living in squalor, teetering on the edge of his life. At a loss for what to do, but desperate to help, Dean offers to take the disgraced agent on a crosscountry trek. Reluctantly, Kent accepts.
1. Chapter 1

Even after a year had passed since the events in Rockwell, Maine, Kent was still haunted by them.

His trial had been mercifully short. To avoid publicizing the issue and compromising national security, he had been punished with long, grueling hours of community service. Once his time was up, however, he was booted out of Washington. It was more than guaranteed he'd never find work as a federal agent again. With that hanging over his head, he saw no reason to remain at the capital. So he packed his essential belongings into his car, sold his house, and left.

After some time traveling around (he didn't wander too far, as his attachment to the District of Columbia remained strong), he settled down in Maryland. Or rather, he stayed there the longest. His place of residence was an ugly, decrepit motel. It was all he could manage afford. Finding decent work was hard, he told himself. He turned to digging ditches, breaking rocks, and laboring until his body ached. No job since his early youth had him work so hard, and at least then he was breaking his back for the government.

The government. All things kept returning to the government. And every time it did Kent had to sit down, curl up into a ball, and tug at his hair to resist the urge to scream at the top of his lungs.

That first year was hard. Too hard for Kent to deal with on his own. Slowly he found himself turning to the bottle for comfort. His precious funds hard earned from odd jobs went to booze instead of his savings. Brandy, whiskey, cognac– they all became familiar comforts. His clothes began to reek of them eventually. They left him a shell of a man; he couldn't think, couldn't talk, couldn't feel. And that was how he wanted it.

That was how he was when Dean called him for the first time.

"Who is this?" Kent sputtered. He raked a shaky hand through his hair and leaned weakly against his motel bedroom wall. Work had been more of a hassle that day, so he was more drunk than typical that evening.

Dean hadn't been expecting this call to be very short, but then he picked up the phone and sounded like– well, he was drunk, there was no doubt about that, but he also sounded sad. Maybe sadder than anyone he had heard in his life, which was quite the surprise for Dean.

"Yeah, uh, hello it's Dean? Dean McCoppin. From McCoppin Scrap? I was just calling to ask–" Okay, asking how he was could be a stupid road to go down. Maybe a joke? Yeah, that should work. "I was calling to ask when would be a good time to come pick you up, because you're such trash?"

Dean slapped a hand to his face. That was stupid. He might as well have just asked how he was doing anyway. The beatnik leaned against his kitchen wall to wait for whatever heart wrenchingly pitiful, or just downright angry response he would elicit from the man on the other end of the phone and then try to turn around for at least a slightly better mood.

"Excuse me? " Kent's eyes went wide and he stumbled a tad. He didn't immediately recognize the voice past his drunken haze, but the words had rung clear. And they'd stung. He cleared his throat and tried to blink away the knee-jerk tears that had welled up in his eyes. Then it hit him: Dean McCoppin from McCoppin Scrap. He knew who that was. A sudden tightness gripped his chest and he shifted his posture against the mottled motel wallpaper try and distract himself from the feeling.

"How did you get this num–" The question truncated itself. The answer was rather obvious once he gave it some thought. There was one concerned coworker he had that had tracked his entire exodus out of Washington. Kent scowled. He should have really better cut his ties. But deep down the idea of still having a thread of connection to the place and business (so to say) he loved so much brought him a small bit of melancholy joy. It was making him tear up all over again, so he forced himself to stop considering the possibility of it being more joyous than it actually was.

"Never mind. What do you want?" There was no plausible reason Kent could fathom for the other man to be ringing him up. What did McCoppin have to gain? Did he want to taunt him? Kent scoffed under his breath. Now that was plausible. He was certain that everyone in Rockwell hated him. A snarl formed on his lips.

**Rockwell **.

The name of that town was always thought or said by him with an undeniable note of venom. It was God-forsaken as far as Kent was concerned. That spot had been the sight of his greatest failure. And, for once, deep down in the corners of his mind, he believed it could have been his fault.

It was not only the near-death experience that made him drink.

"I wanted to ask how you were doing. Did you make it back to Washington?" Are you okay? Dean figured that maybe some honest interest in his well-being might cheer him up. Or at least make Kent think he had the upper hand. He tried not to betray the fact that he knew of the other man's inebriated state just yet. The telltale sounds of a stifled sob came through the phone and Dean couldn't help but pity him.

It had taken him a long time. No one had so much as thought of Kent Mansley in the weeks following the explosion, but over time, people began to wonder what had ever become of the man. There were rumors of a badly decayed corpse washing up from a river several miles from Rockwell, but as far as Dean had known the rumor had no foothold in reality. Kent's name barely came up in the Hughes household, but when it did it was usually met with a scowl from Hogarth.

It had taken a long time for Dean to think of him too, and even longer for him to think of him as any more than some whackjob. Someone who was gone and didn't matter anymore. But as the months passed, Dean began to realize what had happened in Kent's life as well. He'd lost his job for certain. Something that Annie had told him he had put great stock in. The way he must have been outcast had more than likely left him without a steady job, and after all, he had nearly died that day too.

When a call came from Washington only a few days ago, Dean was surprised. It was that coworker. She told him that she had found his business card and thought that if he could contact Hogarth, it might be good to make amends with Kent. Dean agreed, but he didn't ask Hogarth. He decided it would be best to find out how Kent was doing first.

Kent's brow furrowed and a question of his own formulated in response to Dean's: Why do you care? He couldn't understand why the beatnik was showing compassion for someone he deserved– no, not deserved, but was expected to hate. Kent still reasoned he had done nothing worthy of being hated, but the reaction a handful of his coworkers had to his actions lead him to predict others would detest him anyways. Dean should feel the same. Dean should hate him.

Maybe he did.

"I'm not in Washington anymore," Kent sighed. His voice was ragged with unreleased sobs and the burn of alcohol clinging to his throat. It took on even more edge when his tone became defensive. "What's it to you, McCoppin? Why do you–" A pause, a press of the hand to his lips, a suppressed belch, and he was speaking again "–why do you want to know?"

He slumped against the motel wall further and the ground seemed to fall out from under him for a brief second. He was terribly, terribly drunk. Kent raked a hand through his hair to steady himself. Did Dean notice? Most likely. Did he care? Kent thought not.

"I wanted to tell you that I forgive you. We've all suffered enough." Dean plopped down in a chair, letting his hand rest against the arm. "There's also– Well. I also wanted to invite you on a trip. There's a museum opening down in California. I wanted to go, but I'd rather not make the drive alone. You know Annie and Hogarth, they're always busy. I thought the trip would be good for both of us. We could…" Dean couldn't really think of an appropriate way to say it. "We could catch up."

And the way Kent was acting, it was obvious he needed the trip. Dean drummed his fingers on the armrest, hoping he still managed to sound casual. "Where are you anyway? I could pick you up on the way if you want to go." He was careful of his phrasing. Dean had to make sure Kent still believed he had autonomy in this situation. He had to believe this was his choice alone. It was a measure of confidence that Dean was unsure if Mansley had retained.

"You forgive me?" Kent hadn't heard anything Dean had said after that. He nearly dropped the phone; it was a wonder his clammy hands held onto the receiver as well as they did to begin with. There was no reason he should be forgiven. Kent shut his eyes against his growing headache. He was certain the beatnik still blamed him for what had happened in Rockwell.

And who wouldn't? From the townspeople's point of view it appeared as if he had doomed them all. But if they knew– if they knew what Kent had been trying to do, they would blame him no longer. It was the fault of that stupid kid his plan didn't pan out. He had brought everyone back to the town, back to the nuke. None of it would have happened if–

If Dean hadn't driven back to the town. If Hogarth hadn't survived being shot out of the sky along with the Giant.

A lump formed in Kent's throat and he attempted to swallow it roughly. It persisted. He eyed the desk just across from him. There he had left his bottle of whiskey and his full, but half-melted, glass. Weakly he stumbled back into his chair and quickly took a sip from the stout cup. The phone cord strained over the distance. "Why?"

"The Russians could probably kill us any moment from the sound of the news. I don't want to leave loose strings untied. I don't want to leave with any debts. Whether you deserve it is out of the equation. I barely know you."

It was an odd way to describe how he felt about it, but Dean thought it brought the point across. Most of what he knew of Mansley was what Hogarth had told him. His own personal experience was mostly of him panicking, fearful of the general's wrath or of the giant itself.

He had known the Giant better than he did Kent, but he knew that Kent had been terrified, and for a long time it seemed fear had ruled the country. It didn't mean much, but he thought one small step would start to bring the fear out of all of their lives. Not the government, maybe, but he had to stick to his principles. If the Giant was alive like Hogarth said, it had acted out of fear too. Dean knew he would never understand, but that was alright.

All of Kent's melancholy evaporated. Through his drunken haze had interpreted all of what Dean had said– and not the way he had intended for his words to come across. This wasn't about him. This wasn't about what he felt, or what he was suffering from, or what he had done.

"You barely know me," he rasped. A long, sarcastic chuckle followed those words. For a second he had been sucked in by Dean's kind tone and apparent compassion. But it was a ruse. All that matter was that he walked away guiltless. That he felt like a good person for washing away the animosity he felt for Kent. That he could leave him behind in his memories and sleep better at night and muse to others I took him on a trip once to let him know how sorry I was.

"You barely know me, you hate me, and now you're sorry," Kent finished, biting down on the word 'sorry' with a note of unbridled bitterness. "Is that right? Is that– I'm not an idiot, you son of a bitch. You pity me. You want to wash your hands of me. That's it. That's what everyone else has done. That's what you'll do. At the end of the day you really aren't different from everyone else."

Dean's face took on a concerned expression as soon as he heard the laugh. It sounded just a little unhinged from his end of the line. "Mr. Mansley– Kent–" He was cut off by the bitter words vibrating through electric cords, seeming to pick up more malice with every mile they traveled.

Finally fed up, Dean didn't wait for an opening and just spoke."I'm not sorry. I don't regret anything I did. I hated you like everyone else, but then I thought, 'No, that's just stupid. The person who hates Kent Mansley the most is Kent Mansley. He might as well know that there's one person out there who doesn't agree with him!'"

Dean gesture wildly at the earpiece, anger sparking movement from him like a cattle prod. "Don't be stupid. If I really hated you I'd ask how you were doing, let you lie and say you're fine, then let you get back to that bottle you're busy finishing off. I'd pretend to be a good person, but yeah, I'm just the same and you can go ahead and say that."

"You think I hate myself?" Kent had to laugh at that, so he did. For a long time, the only thing audible on his end of the line was his bitter laughter. One might start to wonder if he was of sound mind– not merely stuck in a depression drowned out by booze, but an instability sprung from the same bottle. With just the sharpness of his laughing this was detectable. What Dean could glean by looking at Kent would likely be even harder for him to handle.

"I don't hate myself," Kent wheezed finally. "You hate me. I hate you, not me." A hiccup followed those words. "And you… You don't regret it? You don't regret hating me. That's new." He hunched over in his chair to rest his face in one palm. The phone cord tightened even further behind him and the flimsy table before him groaned with his weight. "No one before you was so… Pitiless that they didn't regret hating me."

"I don't hate you anymore. I feel sorry for you. Especially with that little… Revelation you just had. Honestly, I think you should see a doctor, you don't sound right." Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Look, Kent, I think you need to get out of where you are right now. The isolation isn't helping you."

Dean leaned over to adjust a piece of a mobile hanging from the wall. "Where are you anyway? I'll come and get you if you really need it."

"You feel sorry for me?!" Kent stood bolt upright, suddenly screaming into the phone. He wasn't sure what was worse– to be pitied, or to not be pitied at all. The conundrum didn't get much thought put into it as the quick elevation left Kent feeling light headed and queasy. With a groan he sat back down. Dean was right to worry about his health.

"I don't want your goddamn pity," he seethed, rubbing a hand over his face. "If that's all you have for me then I'm not going to tell you where I am. I'm not going to tell you anything, I'll just hang up right now unless you give me a damn good reason not to." Kent was shaking now; rage was all he could feel.

Dean held the phone away from his face. God was he loud. Tentatively, Dean held the phone back up to his ear soon enough to hear him groan. He had to hold back a scoff at Kent's little tantrum, but he managed to keep an even keel.

"Okay, calm down and hear me out, alright?" His patience was running thin. Why had he called again? Kent was about half as charming as when he had been screaming about the Giant, and that was saying something. In the end, Dean kept on the phone because he was worried.

Perhaps he was a little too much of a humanitarian for his own good, or he just wanted to prove he was more stubborn in his ideals. It was hard to tell. Dean sat down on his couch and laid out his metaphorical cards.

What incentives did he have on this guy? He hadn't known him very well in the first place, so what did everyone want? There was money. Dean wasn't sure how much of it Kent had, but he was almost certain he had more of it. "Listen, I know you must be short on cash. I'll take you on this trip, help you get back on your feet, and then you never have to come near Rockwell again. Deal?"

Kent's eyes went wide. Either he knew him well enough to know he couldn't turn down a bribe or he still felt sorry for him. In his drunken state, however, Kent didn't reach either conclusion and instead fell into a bit of a mental limbo. The only sound he made was a peeved mumble– almost a growl, but not quite. Certainly the noise someone made when not in the best state of mind.

"…Fine," he finally said. "If you keep your word– you had better keep your word, you hear?" He raked a hand through his hair with a huff. Was he actually going to tell Dean where he was? Kent considered just hanging up; but then there was the money problem again.

He needed funds. There was still an amount of money in his savings. But due to his habits, it certainly wouldn't be enough to get him back on his feet. Not if he were to use it himself, alone.

"…I'm in Maryland," he rasped. "Baltimore. I'm staying at…" As he tried to remember the seedy motel's name he went silent and squinted. "The Captain's Quarters. Did you get all that?"

"Yes, I've got it." Dean grabbed a notebook and found a piece of graphite (he had been sketching earlier) to write it down. "I promise I will not go back on my word. What does the place look like? I'm going to need a visual reference."

Without thinking about it, Dean began sketching shapes next to the directions. There were two wide circles set in a somewhat ovular shape, then a rectangle below that with several triangular shapes inside of it. Slowly, it took a humanoid shape. Several trees grew from lines around its feet, the tallest only coming to its shoulder. Then, in a tiny clearing below the giant, a little figure stood, tiny wisps of smoke rising from its pipe. "You know, Kent, Maryland is a long drive. It's going to be awhile. You should get some sleep before I get there. You'll feel better."

"…I'll try," Kent muttered through the line. "And the place– it's this God-awful pea green color. If it makes you feel sick to your stomach you're in the right place." He stood up and wandered back over to where the phone's cord began, a hand pinching the bridge of his nose as he went. Dean was right. Sleep was what he desperately needed. Every night it seemed he was getting less and less rest and having more and more nightmares.

Distorted, crimson memories of that day. The end of everything. Over and over again. Kent felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck just thinking about it.

"And I don't think I'll get any sleep," he added. "I haven't been getting sleep for a while now."

"Pea green, got it." Dean may have lived in the giant equivalent of a tin can, but at least he had the sense not to paint it that color. He continued sketching as Kent moved back to the base of his phone. "Why can't you sleep? You do know coffee won't make you sober, right?" Dean stood back up, flipping his sketchbook closed.

"I'm coming to get you. It's going to be…" he had to guess the distance in his head. "It'll take me about a day to get there. Sit tight and don't touch that bottle, alright?"

"It's not coffee, McCoppin," Kent sputtered. "I don't drink to be sober. And I'm going to keep drinking as I very well–" a hiccup "–please. Do you hear me?" It'd be rather difficult for Dean not to hear him. Kent hadn't toned down his volume any and was still on the cusp of shouting. He leaned back up against the wall with his eyes half shut. Kent was utterly exhausted, but he hadn't been lying when he said sleep would be difficult. If only the nightmares didn't persist every time he finally drifted off and found peace…

Sleep was supposed to be his retreat. Dreams of what should have been and would could be were supposed to flock to him and dress his nights with joy his days could no longer supply. Kent grasped the phone corded between his thumb and index finger and pinched it until his knuckles went white. Even his own mind was turning its back on him. Would he go insane next?

"Are you still there?" he asked in a growl.

"You can't drink if you go to sleep. Look, Kent, do whatever you need to do, just don't kill yourself and get some rest." Dean was sure of it now. Kent needed this. Despite his attitude, he was glad he'd called. Even if he wasn't suicidal, Dean wasn't sure if he would make it very long on his own. Soon enough the money was going to run out for him, and Dean wasn't sure what he might do then. Finally hearing Kent's last question, Dean spoke up again. "Yes, I'm here. Listen, just go to sleep, you'll feel better in the morning."

Kent was silent for a few moments. Maybe he should at least try to get some rest. But that would mean doing what a beatnik ordered, and that idea made his stomach churn. He scowled and, absently, growled into the phone like an animal. And in a way that's all he was now; the man who had marched into Rockwell had been worn away by a year of poor self care and a gnawing sense of something he was choosing to ignore. The Kent Dean now spoke to was nothing more than a wounded, discarded government dog.

"Fine," he spat. "Fine, I'll… I'll try. But I probably won't get any sleep. I never do. So I don't bother."

"That's all I ask." Dean cooled down a bit, it was easier to think clearly when the situation was no longer escalating. He leaned against the wall with the phone lazily pressed to his ear. "By the way, did you just growl at me?" Dean's suppressed laughter could be heard on the other side of the phone. "Cool yourself and I'll be right over. Goodbye, Kent."

Kent just let the phone fall from his hand. It was likely the beatnik would hang up anyways, he figured. He frowned; the beatnik, what on Earth was his name? It was a struggle to recall it beyond the haze of exhaustion and alcohol clouding his mind. Like most things from Rockwell, Kent had tried his best to forget it. All of the clues, all of the events– it wasn't to much avail, but in the case of the junkman's name he had succeeded. With a grunt he pressed his hands over his face, as if to rub out every bit of exhaustion in the creases of his expression.

Maybe he would try to sleep.

The (second) clunk of the phone hitting the wall made Kent jump. But it was then he decided that, yes, he would try and rest. He reluctantly closed up his bottle of whiskey and then crawled onto his shaky bed, the springs squeaking under his weight. Kent curled up onto one side, breathing uneasily and stifling a cough, and shut his eyes.

It was not until he heard knocking on his door that he realized he'd actually drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hung up and gathered things to take with him on his journey. His wallet, a thermos of coffee, his keys, and a blanket. Dean was already dressed warmly, but he wasn't sure how much sleep either of them would get in the next twenty-four hours. Finally, the beatnik climbed into his tow-truck and set out for Baltimore.

Several cups of coffee, a dinner stop, and eleven hours later, Dean was driving through the mean streets of Baltimore. A tinge of sickly green through the window let him know he was in the right place. Dean parked the car and got out, surveying the ugly building before him. "This is definitely the place."

Inside, a grumpy looking woman at the front desk greeted him. Her face looked like a road map, and not in a flattering way. "You want a room?"

Dean shook his head. "I'm here to see a–" he cleared his throat. "Kent Mansley? Real tall cat, red hair."

The woman nodded. "Upstairs, third door to the left." In less than a minute, Dean was knocking on the door, a bag of fast food in one hand and a rather concerned look on his face.

Kent swung open the door rather suddenly and stared down at Dean with red-hued eyes. Despite having a suitcase gripped tightly in his right hand, the last thing he looked ready to do was travel. Everything about him was slightly off-kilter. His clothes were disheveled enough, his hair was unkempt enough, and his posture was unbalanced enough to suggest that he was unwell– and certainly not the brash and arrogant man who had strode into Rockwell a year ago.

"I didn't get any sleep," he seethed. "Are you ready? I want to get out of this hellhole." The smell of alcohol and something unpleasantly yet familiarly acidic clung to the air around him.

Dean sent up a silent, involuntary prayer for Kent's health as soon as he saw him. Or perhaps it was a not-quite-silent oath. It was hard for him to tell which from his own perspective. All he knew was that there were quite a few nonverbal expressions that came out with the word, "Christ."

Dean stepped back to give him room to move. "Are you? I've got– I picked up dinner." He held out the bag and a cup of coffee. "I take it you're not driving?" He headed down the hallway with a pensive frown on his face. "Let's get you the hell out of here."

"I have some things in my room," Kent grunted. He jabbed a stiff thumb towards the space behind him but continued to leer at Dean like he was some familiar but grotesque hallucination. "In the cardboard boxes. Don't look in them or I'll strangle you." With that he headed out to put his suitcase in Dean's car.

It was hard to tell exactly what the source of Kent's hostility was. Was it the general resentment he likely felt for those of Dean's 'type'? Was it because of some personal grudge related to what had happened in Rockwell? Was it just because Kent hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in a whole year? Perhaps it was one or all of those factors. One thing was clear– he had no good will harbored towards the junkman.

Dean frowned and watched him as he headed down the hall before entering his room to retrieve a couple of the boxes. "Don't worry," he grumbled, "I don't want to look at your porn."

Downstairs Dean set down the boxes to unlock the car. "Dinner's in the bag." He nodded toward the bag he had deposited on top of the boxes. "And you're going to act like a reasonable human being, or I'm not driving you back." He shoved the bag into Kent's hands and went to retrieve the rest of the boxes from his room, dropping the unfinished bottle of whiskey in the trash.

Kent was in the passenger's seat eating when Dean returned. Apparently at some point he'd opened packet of maple syrup and had a bit of a struggle doing so; it clung to his fingers and everything he had touched since. A wadded up, discarded napkin was proof he'd tried to wipe it off. It'd be rather humorous if it weren't for the fact he was shaking like a thin branch in winter wind and looked like Death's twin. He stuffed another forkful of pancakes and hash browns into his mouth and spoke while chewing.

"What did you do with my whiskey?" he asked. His gut was telling him Dean tossed it out; Kent wasn't too sure whether that prospect made him relieved or upset. On the one hand, he'd just thrown away his belongings without asking. On the other, he'd just severed his last ties to a bad, bad habit. But… It was _Dean _who had done so. And that made Kent's blood boil.

"I just want to know," he added quickly. "I _deserve _to know."

"I threw it away," Dean said. "It's not good for you."_ And from the looks of it, it's killing you_. He looked him up and down, slightly disgusted. He felt sorry for him, but damn him if he wasn't driving him crazy. It didn't seem worth it to say anything though. He was sick, it wasn't right to bother him with manners.

"Is there anything else you want to bring? I'm just about finished with these boxes." He opened the back door and set the boxes inside. "You're going to want to wash your face before we leave too."

Dean's eyes then softened. "You'll be able to sleep better if the blanket doesn't stick to you." He took said blanket out of the back and set it between the seats. "I'll be right back with the rest of this stuff. Don't fall over, Mansley."

Kent glared after Dean and kept eating. He spoke to him as if he were a child; it wasn't his fault his motor skills were impaired by the God-awful combination of sleeplessness and drunkenness. Well– it certainly was, but Kent was not about to take the blame for anything. And definitely not for something as insignificant as a mess made while eating. He continued to dice up his pancakes and stuff forkfuls into his mouth.

When Dean returned Kent told him in an affected state of haughtiness: "The rest of my belongings are in my car." There were several other boxes piled up in the backseat; and until the trunk was opened, only heaven knew what was inside. It was startlingly clear now that Kent really had left D.C. for good. Everything he could afford to continue owning was either in his suitcase, in Dean's trunk, or in his own automobile.

Anything material wealth seemed to suggest was not applicable to Kent. He was stripped bare not only by sickness but by circumstance as well. Kent trembled in the passenger's seat and set his fast food bag, full of trash, aside.

"I'm cold," he mumbled.

Dean finished putting the boxes in the back and dusted off his pants. He hadn't gotten dirty moving any of Kent's things, but it was a good signal that it was time to go. "I'll be sure to hook that up."

Dean reached into the truck and took out the bag. "Come on," he offered his other hand. "Let's get you cleaned up. Then you can warm up under that blanket. I'll even turn on the heat if you need it." He spoke gently, as if to a wounded animal, but he doubted his tone would have any positive effect. Kent would take anything he said aside from an outright insult as patronizing. At least, that was what he guessed. "You know, if you're not feeling up to traveling, we can stay here for awhile longer. You're not driving, that's for sure, so it shouldn't be too bad."

"I am not going to say here a single moment more than I have to," Kent snapped. He rubbed the back of his hand against his face and scoffed when it only further worsened the spread of maple syrup. Another shiver passed over him and his gaze sharpened. The state he was in was utterly pathetic– deserving of at the very least pity. But to be pitied was the last thing Kent wanted. He kept his eyes off Dean deliberately.

"I thought the whole point of this was to get me out of here. If I stay any longer I might just change my mind and forget you, this trip, and any chance of–" Kent cut off, his lip curling. His whole expression gained a layer of poignant bitterness. "–Forget it. Let's just get the hell out of here."

For a few seconds, Dean gave him a deadpan look. He was curious about what Kent was going to say, but in this state... There was no way he would get a straight answer. "I'll be right back."

Dean went back to hook up Kent's car, but after a few minutes it was clear that it was not the only thing he planned to do. He circled back around and went inside the motel. A few minutes later he came back out with a handful of damp paper towels. "Here, clean up." He thrust them toward Kent and turned on the ignition. "You don't need to get my car all sticky."

There was no trace of pity in Dean's demeanor. If anything, he had an air of a very disappointed parent, but he seemed detached enough now that even that didn't quite fit the bill. "We're driving straight to Rockwell all night, then through the morning. Any problems?" His tone of voice made it clear that any problems he might voice were of little concern to him.

Kent tossed the soiled paper towel right in Dean's face.

"You had better not take me into town. Just your junkyard. We leave my car and then we head out, understand?" He was livid but trying to contain his anger. It made his trembling worse and had a cough boiling up in the back of his throat. But to show any more weakness was the last thing Kent wanted to do, especially in front of Dean. Even if it was a rather futile pursuit.

Every bit of his exhaustion was already painfully evident. There were heavy bags under his burning gaze; the fingers of his clenched fist were bonier than usual; the broad hunched shoulders that once conveyed a powerful presence sloped like a broken horse's back. Unlike some wounded animal, however, Kent didn't realize how close to the edge he was. How close to death he really was.

"Let's just leave. I've got everything," he spat. "Are you stalling or something?"

Dean sat there in silence, allowing the towel to fall off of him, listening to Kent's spiel, shoulders tense. When he was done, Dean whipped around to face him. "You know what, Kent?" His hands gripped the wheel with a sort of intensity that Kent had only seen once before, when he rode into town on his bike to tell him Hogarth was still with the Giant. "We are leaving, but I'm gonna give you a choice. Either you calm down and stop acting like a spoiled kid, or I'm taking you to the hospital. You can forget about Rockwell. Do you know how bad you look? Do you have any idea of how much you look like a corpse?"

Despite the intensity, Dean remained calm. He did not shake, he did not shout. He spoke quietly, his voice tight with bridled anger. He threw the blanket at Kent and pressed down on the gas. "So which is it?"

"I don't have any goddamned money to pay a hospital bill!" Kent seethed. He was trembling all over again and he hated it. But he went on– his rage was worth letting out, he decided, even if it only served to make Dean even further convinced he needed medical attention. Not just because he had threatened to leave him in the hands of doctors as punishment, but because the angrier Kent got the sicker he looked– both in mind and in body.

"Either you leave me here to rot or you're taking me to Maine. It's your choice, but either way you–" Kent grasped Dean weakly by his shirt front and stared him down with intense, hollow eyes "–have to deal with me. And that includes however I very well feel like acting, whatever I very well feel like saying, and _whatever I damn well want! _"

"You let go of me," Dean demanded. "I'm driving. It isn't safe." He took Kent's hands and pulled them off of his shirt, surprised by how easy it was to do.

"The hospital bill will get paid, what matters is that you get better. Now I'll take you to Rockwell, but I need to know you'll make it there. Being angry with me isn't helping." Dean's voice was somewhere between angry and soothing. There was no reasoning with him, so Dean decided it would be best to appease him instead. Pissing him off further obviously wasn't going to help either of their mental states.

"We'll go straight to my place, no stopping in town. You'll never have to see Baltimore again," he said, a hint of a southern accent revealing itself in his voice. "You just need to get some sleep so I don't have to take you to the hospital. Okay?" Dean didn't quite realize it, but he hadn't let go of one of Kent's hands. He held it tight in his own free hand.

Kent burned his gaze into Dean's hand, not really registering what was occurring until his haze of anger let up for a few moments of pensive clarity. What he did realize– _the beatnik was touching him _–only served to make him even more enraged. He didn't hesitate to shove Dean backwards, snarling like a cornered animal.

The car swerved when Kent pushed Dean. "Don't do that!" He turned sharply to compensate for the wrong turn and managed to get the vehicle back under control.

"Don't you _ever _touch me!" Kent spat. "I'm supposed to sleep, and what, you do know what God knows to me or my things? Who's to stop you from pilfering my wallet?"

Dean turned and gave Kent a sharp glare. "Do you think I would come all this way just to take your wallet? You've already got everything you own either in or attached to my truck!"

Kent was complaining for complaining's sake and he knew it. Sleep sounded like a wonderful idea, despite his protests. How long had it been since he'd gotten a full eight hours of shut eye? His eyelids sunk halfway over his eyes just thinking about it and he heaved a ragged sigh.

After a while, Dean calmed down, relieved that Kent was finally resting. He drove for quite a while before the six cups of coffee he had had caught up to him. He stopped on the side of the road and looked up at the sky. The night was calm and the moon shined brightly overhead. Dean stepped out into the field beside the road and faced away from the car.

Kent wasn't fully asleep when they stopped, but was very well close to being unconscious. With one bleary eye open, like an animal not fully committed to being awake, he watched Dean exit the car. He grunted as he realized what he was doing and directed his monocular gaze elsewhere. Not because he respected Dean's right to privacy, but because he didn't much fancy watching him take a piss.

The sky was rather nice, he noted. Kent squinted and groaned a tad. Looking up was like scaling a sheer height and then, after being told to not look down, wanting nothing but to face the abyss beneath one's feet. Except in this case it was even more of a test of self-restraint; Kent had issued the order to himself.

Maybe he should get out and try for himself.

Reluctantly he peeled himself from the door's window, wiped his damp cheek dry, and got out of the car. He walked quite a distance away from where Dean stood– the desire to not be near him was even stronger in this situation –before he did as nature told him to.

It didn't take much observation on Dean's part to figure out what the other man was doing so far down the road. When he was finished, he got back in the car and waited for Kent, fingers tapping the steering wheel. It crossed his mind that he could drive away and leave him there, though the intention of actually doing so was far from his mind. How paranoid was Kent? Dean stared down the small stretch of road in his headlights with a thoughtful scowl. Would he think of that? Or was he just too tired to care? It wasn't possible that he actually trusted him, that was certain.

The black silhouettes of the trees against the sky reminded Dean that they still had a lot of ground to cover, prompting him to glance out the window in Kent's direction. "You okay over there? It's going to be a few more hours before we get to Rockwell, so if you need to stretch your legs or anything, I'd do it now." Not that he was in any shape to do such a thing. Dean just hoped his show of concern would be taken as a peace offering between the two rather than another insult.

Kent zipped up his pants with a sharp tug and snarled. Was he trying to hurry him up? He'd move at his own pace whether that beatnik liked it or not. What was his name again? It had slipped his mind; with it still clouded by the after effects of alcohol and little sleep, it was hard to remember much of anything. _Dean_, it floated back to him, _Dean McCoppin. Right. _Slowly Kent trudged back over to the car.

"I'm fine," he hissed. A white-knuckled grip braced against the open window of the driver's door. Kent bore into Dean with his reddened, hostile eyes. They were glassy– eerily like a dead man's. But the vitriol making them tremble in their sockets made it very clear Kent was, thankfully, still alive.

Dean looked utterly terrified by Kent's sudden appearance for a moment before grasping the wheel and letting out a shaky breath.

He stayed silent, despite the immediate response of, "could've fooled me," being on the tip of his tongue. He thought it might be better if he didn't speak at all. At least for now. They had several hours left to drive, and Dean was hoping he might get some peace and quiet in some of that time.

He waited for Kent to get in the car before driving off.


	3. Chapter 3

Several hours later, Dean pulled into his driveway and yawned. He leaned against the wheel for a few seconds, his head bowed. He looked over toward Kent. "Look, I'm gonna go put your car in the back so it doesn't get rained on. You can go inside and help yourself to breakfast or whatever."

The sun was high in the east, indicating mid-morning. They had driven– or more accurately, Dean had driven and Kent rode –all night.

Kent groaned and reluctantly sat up. He remained immobile for a long while (much longer than one would spend sitting idly in a car after parking, anyways). Slowly his senses took in his setting: the leather beneath him. The sound of mirthful birdsong. That familiar ache that came with waking up earlier than noon– painful but carrying the promise of a new day to be lived. He blinked.

_I didn't have a nightmare_, he realized. His eyes flew open and in a rush of motion he hopped out of the truck. The surge of energy was gone the moment his feet hit the ground, however, and he was left standing there wobbly without the support of the energy that had carried him forwards. He didn't have a nightmare– he'd slept that whole drive.

Kent hadn't gotten that much sleep in months.

The rumble of his stomach had his mini celebration come to an end. Kent grumbled something unintelligible even to himself and meandered inside. Dean had promised him there was breakfast in there, hadn't he? It was a bit hard to decipher what he'd said half-asleep.

When Dean made his way indoors– Kent hadn't noticed him _at all _since their arrival –his impromptu guest was seated at the short kitchen table eating oatmeal with a trembling hand.

Dean had finished putting away Kent's car before coming inside. "Oh, good. You're eating." He put some bread in the toaster and started a pot of coffee. "Do you want any coffee?" Dan leaned against the counter to wait for his breakfast. When it was done he sat down across from Kent and ate silently.

When Dean finished his toast, he finally broke the silence. "You need a shower before we go. And some rest. I don't think you're in good shape to be traveling right now." Dean didn't bother to brace himself for any violent backlash. By now he was expecting it. "I'm going to sleep. I'm going to unfold the couch for you so you can do the same, okay?"

"I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to," Kent barked, mush sputtering from his lips. He noticed and did his best to restrain his anger– which wasn't by much. The trembling hand holding his spoon rested on the table.

"I'll shower, change clothes– but then we're leaving." His unsettling gaze bored into Dean's yet again. Even if he had gotten sleep on the drive up to Rockwell it was starkly evident Kent was in no condition to begin traveling yet. Red still rimmed the sclera of his eyes; dark circles were stamped into his sockets. Surely Kent could feel his exhaustion? The hollowness of his cheeks, the shaking of his thin form? But perhaps those things had set in gradually and he had merely come to accept them as normal.

"Do you hear me?" he sputtered. "We're not staying in this– This God-awful place any longer than we have to!"

"Kent," Dean said gently. "If we go now, I don't think you'll be coming back with me." He didn't clarify his statement, he just hoped the grim tone in his voice communicated what he intended.

He reached out and laid his hand over Kent's, steadying the shaking muscles. Perhaps when he saw the contrast between Dean's steady hand and his own shaking one he would understand, but he doubted it. "In the next twenty four hours, if we leave this house, we're going to be heading to a hospital. The closest one is in the middle of Rockwell." He let go of him quickly to search his cupboards for something, coming back with a thermometer.

"Here, if you don't believe me, believe this." He set the thermometer in front of him. "I'm going to go make your bed. I'll be right back."

Kent stared at the thermometer in contempt. He was still upset that Dean had the audacity to touch him– the farthest way he was from him physically, the better. His eyes narrowed and he picked up the thin glass instrument with a still shaking hand and, deeming his cereal pointless enough to be resigned to a fate of turning soggy, placed the tapered end in his mouth.

"I have a fever of one hundred and three degrees."

Kent entered Dean's living room rather silently (one would have expected him to drag his feet) holding the thermometer in one hand as if it were a used napkin. He didn't hesitate to stare Dean down– _If you say I told you so, I'll throttle you_. That statement was clear in his glare alone. Never mind how sick he was.

"That's pretty high. Almost four and a half points above normal." He smoothed out the blankets he had laid haphazardly over the couch and stepped back. "Here." He reached out and took the thermometer from his grasp. "I'll take that. You get some rest."

He was hesitant to touch him to try to guide him to the bed he had set up for him. Kent seemed like he was getting around alright for the moment, so Dean let him be.

Dean took the thermometer into the kitchen and washed it off, returning the instrument to the cupboard. When he came back out, he crossed the room to his own bed, several feet away from the couch. "Do you need anything? Water, blankets, ice?"

"Water." The word came out in a croak that made Kent wince. He had already made himself comfortable on the couch, up to his chin in blankets and part of the way off to falling asleep. Kent growled under his breath and turned to press his cheek against his pillow.

"Maybe an ice pack." His forehead felt like it was on fire. A shudder passed over Kent; one stronger than the ever-present tremble that gripped him. He really was sick– reality was finally beginning to settle into Kent's mind. Sick with what, he wondered? Maybe his liver was shot. Maybe it was something else. What else? His eyes shut tight. That was something he considered best not to think about.

"Are you still standing there? Go and make yourself useful for Christ's sake."

"You just… Shook." Concern furrowed Dean's brow. He hurried into the kitchen to retrieve the items requested. When he returned, he grabbed a table and brushed the items on top of it to the floor. He handed the ice pack to Kent and set the glass of water on the table as close as possible to him.

Dean's haste was not out of fear that Kent would hurt him, he didn't think he could now. Instead, concern was the force that hurried him. It didn't make much sense, even to him. What reason did Dean have to care for this man's well being? Perhaps it was common human decency, or maybe it was the fear of the very presence of death that seemed to hang over him. Dean was never the most spiritual person, but whatever chill feeling had gripped his spine certainly had control now.

Once Dean was done delivering the needed items, he picked a book off of a makeshift shelf and began flipping through it.

Kent drank his water like a man just retrieved from the brink of dehydration. It was likely that it wasn't too far from the truth. Alcohol had replaced his usual cup of water, and having a cup of coffee hours ago and nothing after had likely had him acutely feeling his deprivation. Originally he had intended to press the ice pack to his forehead, but he began to alternate between alleviating his fever and alleviating his thirst by letting its condensation drip onto his tongue.

"I need more water," Kent rasped. Anger had dissipated from his tone and left him sounding worryingly parched and painfully melancholy. The sound of his own voice made Kent wince– he corrected that the next time he spoke, barking a false "Please!" a few seconds later. With a half-groan, half-whine he sank into his pillow.

He felt like cursing. But this wasn't the kind of pain eased by a few forbidden words; this was no stubbed toe or banged humerus bone. Kent screwed up his eyes as he shut them and his body gave one violent tremble again.

"Maybe get some aspirin too," he whispered.

Dean immediately went to get another cup of water. The realization hit him that Kent must have been going through the worst hangover of his life, and he worked accordingly. He found a pitcher somewhere in his cupboards and filled that too and brought it out. Had he just said please? Dean shook his head. Now he was imagining things.

He found the aspirin next to where the thermometer had been and set the bottle next to the pitcher of water. When he was finally done with all that, he sat down on the edge of the couch and picked up the book again, frantically searching its contents. The title, if one were to look close enough (and was capable of reading at the moment), read "Medical Dictionary." A book likely bought on a whim in a library yard sale along with several anatomy books. Dean was an artist after all.

"Uh, Kent, you're not hallucinating, are you?"

"I don't know, am I hallucinating you being annoying?" Kent snapped. He pressed the cold pack close to the wrinkled plane of his forehead before reaching over to grasp his refilled glass of water. That second glass took him longer to down than the first, but it still seemed like almost no time at all passed before he was halfway through with the pitcher. At that point he seemed satisfied and settled into the couch with a sleepy but malcontent sigh.

"I don't know, I'm only trying to figure out if you're dying or not, sorry if that's annoying to you," Dean shot back with a glare he intended to be sharp enough to split steel. It really wasn't, but he wanted it to be.

"I can't open the aspirin," Kent wheezed, ignoring Dean's retort altogether. His wrists had gone tight with his, for once, actually normal arthritis– but along with his shaking it was sure to have made the twisting motion necessary a temporary impossibility. Kent tried to draw the blankets back over himself with one hand (the other still holding the cold pack in place) only to lack the strength to do so.

A long groan escaped Kent. He hoped a day's rest would fix this. That was if he could manage going to sleep. At this rate it seemed unlikely.

Dean sighed. "Let me get that for you." Apparently Kent was both stupid and pathetic. He may not have been raised in the highest class of people, but he had the good graces not to insult someone who was taking care of him in illness. He opened the bottle of pills and handed it back to Kent.

Dean's expression softened. He waited for Kent to take the aspirin before pulling the blanket up over him again. "I'm sorry. You need to get some rest. I'll be right across the room if you need anything."

Kent's expression was one of exhaustion more than anger. He managed a curt nod in thanks when handed the aspirin, and looked rather disgusted after swallowing them. A bit of surprise overtook him when Dean pulled up his blanket for him, however. Up to that point he had been treating the beatnik with about as much decency as he expected to be shown in return. He hated him, right? So Kent figured he'd hate him back.

That didn't really explain why he was taking him on a trip cross country and promising to help him out financially.

_Pity! _Pity explained that. Kent half shut his eyes. Finally, the will to sleep was falling upon him. But he continued to think as he drifted off. One could pity and hate at the same time, right? Kent surely had. His lip curled a tad. A beatnik thought he was better than him. How cruel; he figured this was just another layer to his cosmic punishment.

"God, Kent. What have you done to yourself?" Dean scratched the back of his head as he made his way over to his own bed. Kent couldn't even lift a blanket now? His frown deepened. If he was getting worse, there would be no avoiding it. Dean would have to take Kent to the center of Rockwell, only yards from where the Giant had stood. There would be little hope for recovery there. Dean set the medical book beside himself and propped himself up with a pillow to read. Maybe this time tomorrow Kent would be well enough to get out of Rockwell for good.

After a while, Dean's eyes drifted up to Kent's sleeping form. His finger rested on a passage labeled, "alcohol withdrawal symptoms." That certainly explained a few things.

Minutes later, Dean's eyelids grew heavy. He fell asleep with one finger wedged in the book.


End file.
